She waited for the ghosts to answer.
They didn’t.
She leaned forward and grabbed the book. “Funeral attendance aside, I wouldn’t mind finding someone to talk to between now and death. Like right now, after being unceremoniously dumped by my half-night stand.”
When the ghosts didn’t laugh at her joke, she flipped to the table of contents. Thirty try-hard chapter titles smirked back at her.
“You Can’t Network If You Don’t Show Up. Friendship Isn’t a Vibe, It’s a Verb. Stop Judging People Before They’ve Finished Saying Hello.”
That last one she didn’t hate. But she also didn’t love. Some people deserved to be judged on sight…especially if they wore Crocs unironically.
She flipped through pages until she landed on: Connection Requires Initiation.
She stared at the words.
When was the last time she’d initiated anything that didn’t involve a contract and a layout? Never. Well, not since the Isabella debacle.
Was that when she’d given up on making friends? Was her alone status Isabella’s fault? Was she why Frankie now lived in social Siberia?
While she wanted the answer to be yes, she muttered no. Her actions, or lack of them, were all on her, not Isabella.
Damn it. When she went back to Naked Runway, she was going to have to make an effort to initiate a less-hostile connection with Isabella.
She sighed, loud and dramatic enough to startle her antisocial ghosts. “Wouldn’t hurt you guys to read this book, too.”
The problem was, how did someone initiate a connection without it crashing and burning the way things just had with Marcus?
Obviously, the answer had to be in the book. If someone had taken the time to write about making friends, that meant she wasn’t the only friendless person wandering around Manhattan. Not the only one deemed terminally unlikable. Hell, maybe there was a whole epidemic of people who’d forgotten how to human.
She glanced out the window, the same one she thought she’d seen someone peeking through her first night in Gi Gi’s Crossing.
This weird little town definitely had people who could use a few lessons. After all, misery loved company. And poorly cuffed jeans.
An idea smacked her upside the head.
According to Ms. Birdie, one of her banishment tasks was to start a book club. But what if she started a different kind of club instead?
A friendship club. Not that she’d ever call it that. Or admit to it. Even under duress.
No, she needed something fashion adjacent. On-brand enough to protect her ego. Subtle enough to hide her real mission.
She crossed to the counter, grabbed the notepad by the phone, and flipped to a blank page.
She’d be doing the town a favor. Introducing them to a way of gathering that didn’t involve paperbacks and lukewarm tea.
This would be an Image Upgrade Club. With liquor. A place to ease the locals into the art of fashion while secretly giving herself a chance to figure out why she was so terrible at making and keeping friends.
They’d think it was about polishing their appeal. Sophistication. Charm. How to avoid denim-on-denim unless it was intentional.
Mr. Uptight would see it as a community service project.
But really, it was for her. A stealth attempt at self-improvement disguised as civic service. And if she could pull one over on Mr. Uptight in the process? Even better. The smug bastard wasn’t nearly as clever as he thought.
The residents of Gi Gi’s Crossing would be her guinea pigs for learning how to make friends. If it worked, she’d return to Manhattan with an actual friendship skill set. Something that had always felt like an accessory she’d never figured out how to wear without looking ridiculous.
She scrawled a few potential group names.
“Style & Substance.” Too Goop-adjacent. Might summon Gwyneth.
